I was on my way back from St. Louis around 2009 with an ex named Kevin I stayed with about four years longer than I should've. We were together four years. This was a long weekend venture we'd finger-landed on for a reasonably close road-trip from Lexington arriving somewhat blind. The best time we plundered was City Museum - not really what the moniker expressed but an adult playground with insane slides and climbing apparatuses plus a thrift store within, wild dinosaur statues, and a body can DRINK (I'm a teetotaller myself, not needing that stuff to have a good time - lock down the pill cabinet if I come around to be on the safe side, tho')!

     Beyond that, it was a mean-ass dive of a city with aggressive homeless-es, garbage hippie restaurants (Fruit Loops on a peesashit 15 buck brunch buffet consisting of 3 other unremarkable items - we paid purely for the address), plus one wrong turn and we landed in Earth's anus (clearly the GPS wasn't omnipresent at this juncture for if it was it would've guided me in the voice of Homer Simpson away from Kev, maybe...). My ill-fit ex had a book on his Zune MP3 player - the autobiography of actress Anne Hesche that we goofed on purely, digesting her audacious spiritual journey complete with UFOs, mocking and hate-listening as recommended by podcaster April Winchell. Despite never meeting this human, I reviled her.

     Hesche fortified a career by dating and dumping comedienne/talk show impresario Ellen Degeneres. We all knew this was coming: a rising starlet "experimenting" with a Hollywood titan. I was cranked to be pissed, even though I didn't watch Ellen's show, know her, nor really give two ripe farts about the woman otherwise. Mob mentality from me, somebody that prided themselves on typically being better than such jazz. It was all that motherfucking Kevin's fault, I swear!

     Flash to the incarcerated life, inside a 10-man annex like my current digs. Watching news and seeing the blurb of similar-in-age actress Anne Hesche being in a wild car crash, I pricked up my ears to this almost-gossip until a vivid element: she was running and screaming on fire. Anne stopped being the person I'd been hexed by entertainment entities and algorithms to perceive. This was that pretty lady with short blonde hair I was choking up over, and tears were lining my eyes when they said her son was at the hospital with her.

     It became impossible for me to even dislike this person. I wanted her to die quickly. The description of her nightmarish condition could only conclude as such, and I wanted that child of her's posthumously bragging about the quality mom he had to not watch his beautiful, beloved parent suffer anymore. In dying, I never would have imagined Anne Hesche would remind me I'm alive.

     It's amazing how our humanity gets lost so quickly over folks we've never encountered. The leader of the free world, for instance.

     I was in the bathroom the other morning, under a new camera that points right-the-fuck-down where I eliminate. There's a curved metal partition that goes to my shoulder but the ick! factor of this monitoring is exponential. Whomever ordered those cameras needs to quit. Seriously. Toss their belongings in a box, cross that lot, and don't breach the gates of Corrections again. We ain't the only ones capable of being institutionalized. I tell busloads of inmates annually the guards didn't put them here, and they aren't victims, their victims are, but this is on YOU if you're reading this, Sad Sack. I don't care how desperate anyone is to catch some fucker smoking spig ("spice"/"spank" - artificial weed), this is monstrous. Other tenured and respected guards have publicly cosigned. ANYWAY, I was on the scat-cam and thought about sitcoms randomly. "All In the Family" came to mind Monday morning December 15th about 8 AM.

     It was, for my money, the best episode and successfully spun off "The Jeffersons", revolving around the engagement party of George and Weezie's son Lionel to Jenny Willis. Hilarity springs from the revelation that the bride-to-be is biracial to the horror of intolerant George and delight of foil Archie Bunker. Gaffes galore erupt with Archibald calling knockout debut star Zara Cully as Mother Jefferson George's  "Mammy", nearly inciting a geriatric ass-beating, then George uses the N-word in his diatribe against the Willis marriage causing Archie to insert wide-eyed that he "hadn't said dat woid in tree yeeahs!".

     A significant element to what differentiated this pre-pilot from the actual show and why I don't care for the given product is Jenny's dad, Tom. In this episode he's played as a slick, competent, and in that era attractive gentleman who even Louise Jefferson finds a tad seductive as he joins the common sense cluster that shuts down any mayhem threatening the glad tidings, with George and Archie alienated bedfellows in xenophobia: legit comic irony.

     On "The Jeffersons" proper Tom W. is played by Franklin Cover and the Honky in the immediate cast is now a fat, oafish, un-compelling nerd. The notion that Roxie Roker (mama to Lenny Kravitz and Catwoman's granny) is either a golddigger or executive producer Norman Lear is an over-apologist is unavoidable.

     The lack of polarity for George in a checker competitor made this show NOT "All In The Family"'s rejoinder. It gets accolades for importance but I'll swat my hand all day long. The balance wasn't there of hilarity (60%) to drama (30%) to issues (10%). Way too much revisionist history believes that shows like "...Family", "Jeffersons", and "Roseanne" were incessant PSA's for causes in our current Social Justice fanaticism culture. Entertainment came first and second, then an almost whispered taste of message.

     For a sparring partner, newly wealthy George (who got his seed money on "AITF" from accident insurance, a deleted element on the eponymous spot) had mouthy maid Florence. Her welcome shot heard 'round the world was "How did we overcome and nobody tol' me?". Marla Gibbs' domestic character became the comedic essence of the show because she was allowed to be. Poverty presented the strife device: the essence of humor. The Easy Street life wasn't lampooned on this show but lamented as a departure from their roots AKA a fucking buzz-kill. Louise bitches about being rich while George bitches at Weezie for bitching, while Lionels # 1 and the inexcusable # 2 replacement bitch at both for first world problems not one of which has the byproduct of any laughter not coming from a can.

     As for Florence I swear I didn't dream this: in one episode after taking too long in the John, the starring couple realize the maid cabbed it to work, ate a fancy breakfast, and is in the loo attempting suicide. Sho' 'nuff, Flo realizes her life is superbly sweet now, couldn't possibly reach higher climes, and she's going out on top. After a pep-talk from her favorite asshole midget Florence flushes the pills down the pot (the detail that still makes ME cry) and without his leave takes the remaining day off. Whats awe-inspiring about this episode? It's about something depressing, and richly HILARIOUS for it. Unfortunately, this was 22 minutes of exception, not rule. For the most part the show was a factory sitcom devoid of the pressure necessary to bust real gut laughs like it's springboard.

     Florence split briefly to head another comedy, "Checking In" (prison jargon when somebody can't live on the yard and elects to live in the hole), having her the manager of an upscale hotel's domestic staff which tanked at less than a season. She returned to Weezie and Geo with a bizarre affliction - lost Ebonics. Yes, Ms. Johnston now had the elocution of the well-heeled, destroying the delivery of her insults, insulting her character and the audience as well.

     Afrocentrics and White collegians would tell us laughing at an uneducated Black woman with a subordinate title is wrong, that she's a "Sapphire" (the label garnered from a vintage "Amos and Andy" character): a derogatory term for the stereotype of the loudmouthed sassy lady of color (not colored lady) in pop culture to entertain privileged Whites. Ignore the potency of this archetype, it's authenticity, enviable status to females of other racial backgrounds, and ofttimes epic comedic property (observe "The Queens of Comedy", nearly every empowered one fitting the bill and a success story for it). Instead look at Florence 2.0 whose barbs now come off impotent and herself less like a scrappy survivor and more like a sore loser.

     For my money, the greatest two episodes of situation comedy ever filmed also involve another unfunny premise: domestic abuse, male on female. Not any ol' gal either, but a beloved commodity - Roseanne Connor's scenes stealing sister Jackie (Laurie Metcalf). The horror story makes up the stitches while the meat is a machine gun of jokes by the fab four: Darlene, Jackie, Dan, and proving throughout why her name is on the damn thing, Herself. Rosie never in better form, balancing the morbidity of the matter with vitriolic perfection ("I will find small boxes if I have to WHORE myself in every grocery store in Lanford, Illinois" and "I'm a good judge of people, that's why I dont like none of 'em"). Delivery immaculate, giving the other three room to shine and they do.

     Dan, cuffed and escorted by friendly cops with a fried drumstick in his mouth supplied by his spouse after beating Jackie's abuser, Fisher, past the afghan covered sofa is iconic television. Darlene showing up to torment him at county jail ("Mama says we have a new daddy now") furthers the myriad re-watch-ability of the hour.

     Folk of today obsess on notions of representation in media. I've miser-ated through innumerable conversations about gays in TV, comics, and movies. Can't say I've seen me, won't say I'm starved to. I see elements and aspects of my full being all over. I'm not only a queer, surprisingly. There's this episode of "Six Feet Under" people hate where David atypically picks up a stranger and puts himself in potentially fatal harm. I identify with that highly. I call bullshit on the entire rest of his arc in that otherwise bright series and all of "Modern Family", plus "Schitt's Creek". I'm not merely exposing me here, I'm talking about an inventory I've known in 40+ years.

     There was a show called "The New Normal" on NBC back in the 20-teens executive produced by a onetime Lexington running buddy of mine, Aaron Lee. It bombed in season one despite a great actress at the helm, Ellen Barkin. I could imagine execs wanting to capture that "Modern" lightning, and this wasn't it, but the first problem out the gate? Two hot dudes in bed together shirtless in every episode? Nope. Threatening as fuck, Mr. Lee. America wanted two homogeneous blobs of unattractive-ness no sane individual believed ever fucked anyone, much less each other without drugs or currency. Like the title of the old Nickelodeon show - "You Can't Do That On Television".

     Who COULD do that on TV? Roseanne, motherfuckers. Real gay in flyover country. Along comes Martin Mull as Leon, Rosie's diner boss and realistic mid-American 'Mo. An aging one when in a relationship with a peer it all goes toxic. In an hilariously real twist, underage porn-goddess Traci Lords joins as a worker at the Lanford Lunch Box. After hours, a sexy hard-bodied wife-beater wearing heartthrob prepares to sex up his "baby" he "missed so bad". Grabbing for the hand that can only be Traci's, instead we get Leon, devouring "loose meat" hot trade after hours. So real you can touch it.

     Represented? Not Leon. I was in my 20s then. Yet the subdivisions of Lanford and the underrepresented intelligentsia of the middle with the frustrated who inhabit it were my wheelhouse. Darlene grew wheels. Her ennui, dressing habits, reading material, love affair with David, the boy of my teen dreams - this weirdo was MY representative. At odds with mom and everybody else for that matter, the cosmetic/ideological transformation, and the awareness that everything was very wrong - Darlene Connor became my screen avatar.

     Like a lot of things, rather than fade away and radiate "Roseanne" dragged itself to irrelevance. Most would agree the family winning the lottery was most uncomplimentary to the audience that propelled it to #1 and kept it there, regardless of most of the nation's loath for the lead. Surname Barr or Arnold with nonstop controversies they eschewed, Mrs. Connors ratings were invulnerable to her bad reputation. Quality began to drop, for me, with her last name. With the divorce from Tom and removal of his Executive Producer credit the show became more sitcom typical, with Darlene's appearance becoming unnervingly similar to a secretary and bear-hugging Pooh at Disneyland. Leon married Scott, Mull's longtime comedy partner Fred Willard in a savagely over-the-top episode bursting with camp and smashing our heads with message as Rosie lectures Lassie's mom, June Lockhart (who died a MONTH AGO!) now Leon's about accepting her gay son - the rotting smell was there before those winning numbers got picked.

     The show attempted to redeem itself when the death knell sounded with Roseanne's character withdrawing the latter season as a fiction from her grief over Dan's death, with startling revelations about the actual fates of the cast and her being alone and somewhat broken. This last five minute effort to reintroduce angst and realism into the framework showboated the unused capability of the staff rather than restoring dignity to the enterprise.

     2023 saw the return of the show to ABC with cast intact. The reboot was granted by America stratospheric ratings. The real Roseanne had a big difference to the 1990's model, the prior being a dyed-in-the-wool Democratic liberal: she was an ardent supporter of Donald J. Trump. This being a Hollywood related project, again Barr was having her project loved despite juxtaposition with her authentic person. 

     Also notable about this new incarnation of the beloved '90's classic: the cast didnt exactly age to the satisfaction of the peanut gallery. John "Dan Connor" Goodman looked like deflated sports equipment. Jackie's voice was a perpetually low, manish register. Worst though, was executive producer Sara "Darlene" Gilbert, had somehow shrank from the buxom teenager that dwarfed her mom to a tiny, unnerving birdlike creature whose comic timing and energy had eroded to nothingness. Unfortunate, as an appearance by Goodman on "The Talk" which Gilbert co-founded led to this resumption.

     What came shortly after the first season of 2.0 was predictable, yet awful. Roseanne was run off the show bearing her name permanently. Likely you know the tale. If not, go to the ideologically succinct locale and inform yourself OR hit the opposite aspect if you feel like expanding your noggin. Long and short, despite the country never caring about Barr's genuine person, ABC axed her posthaste, dare I add excitedly despite the multimillions she wheelbarrowed into their coffers. The Mr. Orange fan was gone.

     Two ungrateful brats owing generous careers to her - Gilbert and Michael "DJ" Fishman had no problem exhibiting sanctimony on social media. The notion of Darlene envisioning herself as the new lead actress of the comedy, waiting for the exit-gaffe by the lady-boss was vulgar and transparent to me. This was clearly opportunistism from someone awaiting the moment to seize. Piranhas who owed their livelihoods to Barr including barely known standup comic Tom Arnold went for the kill. The first to exit the show over the Valerie Jarrett affair was Wanda Sykes. If executive producer Sara Gilbert was truly invested in the qualitative welfare of that program, Sykes was a solution so obvious and not insulting to the integrity of "The Connors".

     In season one, Dan begins a relationship with a bartender played by Katey Segal, very late of "Married With Children". Next season they're married on a show thats still awful. Devoid of comedic anchor, spitting in it's audience's collective face, and awash in loud social messaging (inorganic mixed relationships, a token trans character, queer kids, etc, etc, etc). Now, wouldn't giving that part that went to the (sorry, we know I'm right) patently unfunny Segal have been much more sensible going to somebody who's a standup comedienne, has a voice that can even make crap dialogue laughable, and loved by millions? All that and more organically fitting the shows policy of the Connor family's biracial hookups would be amazing, and there was a great candidate around. Seems to me some other executive producer saw this as too threatening to their status as a horrid flagpole to do this favor to the hundreds of workers Metcalf and Goodman felt indebted to stay aboard for.

     Gilbert and Fishman (who was dealt comeuppance in a boot from the enterprise) read the writing on the wall via the reality of Trump Derangement Syndrome. Even with 2.0s mega-ratings and her character embracing those sentiments, they knew their closeups were right around the bend.

     Yeah, TDS is real, contributing to the extinction of one of the lengthiest pivotal relationships I ever had. When I can't disagree with somebody, we never had anything anyway. I've politely shown contradictory evidence to claims and received maddened and contorted faces spewing ad hominem in return. Millions blown trying to dig up criminal charges from ether. The BBC currently found blatantly guilty of subtracting 54 minutes from footage to severely distort the January 6 narrative - the exact footage used in the ABC produced Liz Cheney procedural to indict and destroy numerous citizens to the applause of millions. Now one of the most trusted leviathans of journalism is dead in the waters. Kids polled no longer trust the media at all, and small wonder.

     This is about sitcoms though, right? One more device for escaping prisons: dads who yell, scream, and turn over tables; being alone, fat, weird, and not knowing why there's a barrier between you and everybody else; being in a warehouse with 1199 others and sometimes completely alone still - music, comics, sitcoms, all there for getaways like road trips with failed romantic partners.

     This IS about sitcoms. After my Orwellian bowel movement, I found out "Meat-Head" was dead. Rob Reiner and wife Michelle were brutally murdered in a Beverly Hills mansion, with their son the suspect. I could recount the times Reiner has pissed me off in recent decades. I wouldn't dare, because I no longer give a shit. My beloved Mike Stivik is gone and horribly so. Then damned if Uncle Donald didn't go and open his mouth while the carpet was still wet.

     The Mike and Gloria years of "All In The Family" are what count. Every one making that quartet - the trio mentioned plus Jean Stapleton's uproarious matriarch Edith are essential. Reiner's overeducated but heartfelt Jughead-appetite bearing son-in-law was played to the hilt by the young man who gave O'Connor the space to explode for the first perfect seven years of the series, which the writers grew to write the characters for after season one.

     Anyways, I fucked up and forgot to give DJT the passage I prepped and he had to ad-lib, being an obnoxious New York asshole that's been terrorized along with his family by politicos, legal teams, and entertainers - particularly female comics of the 1990's - wtf O'Donnell, Degeneres, and Griffin? Particularly the last whom I credited for better sense. She did numerous tours of duty, performing for soldiers and was a cut above. I'm pleading with her to get back to entertainment. Exit the rabbit hole, sister.

     Anyway, here's what King Chee-To was SUPPOSED to say:

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"The country lost a Great (sic) artist with Rob Reiner plus wife Michelle. Melania and my whole family love movies like "A Few Good Men", "Stand By Me", and" Misery". We had our differences, but people like Rob MAKE AMERICA GREAT!"

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     That was hard for him, but he's a better leader for it.

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My favorite political scenario of the last decade was Greta Thornburg railing on us horrible adults before the UN with those profiteering from Green initiatives kissing her ass with ovations on their slimy feet for someone who's never paid a bill nor held a job. Wagging her finger and belting "how DARE you?" like many a know-it-all empowered by planetary assholes. Then the leader of the free world responds with "She's an unhappy kid who needs to go to a movie with a friend". I laughed until I hurt. Better? She didn't bite. She went with the punch. Showed class and stretched his bit instead of trading barbs - I love that kid. What did bitchy conservatives do? Make fun of her haircut. She's under 17, you old farts. She decides what's cool, not us withering bitches. The world of girls will rock "Greta Bangs" thanks to your taunts.

     OK, multiverse Trump story aside, this thing was and is so unnecessary. It's why I hate the merger of entertainment and politics from the ground. Sunny Hostin pisses me off every time I look at her face but let me be clear on something: PLEASE don't anyone harm that dumb-ass. Why not? Because probably some tiny motherfucker in a highchair looked at her smile and saw the most perfect thing God ever made, that's why.

     Love your babies, everyone. 'Bye for now.